


Mayday

by stygianCreator (JynX245)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirk fucking dies but also not to decapition this time, Graphic Depiction of Suicide, John Not Coping, Look idk where that tag comes from but I'm taking it because he doesn't, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, This is a vent, dirkjohn, platonic davejohn, ventfic i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JynX245/pseuds/stygianCreator
Summary: A long winded ramble in which Dirk kills himself and John goes into shock
Relationships: John Egbert & Dave Strider, John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Kudos: 35





	Mayday

You place your hand on his cheek. He shifts in his sleep, dark hair tousled and splayed over the pillow. An angel in his sleep, a mischievous devil once he wakes. You feel the slightest of smiles curve your mouth upwards, quickly vanishing.  
You have lied so many times, drawn so many into the event horizon of your blackhole persona. No matter where you look, there is only reminders of the abomination you've become- or maybe that you always were.

Your name is DIRK STRIDER. You are TWENTY THREE, and you're sitting on your bed, staring at your boyfriend, JOHN, while he sleeps. As incredibly creepy as it sounds, you barely see him, as lost in your thoughts as you are. This is how you always are, even if people make the mistake of believing you are down to earth and grounded, a calming influence.  
Far from that, you are a whirling, chaotic force that pretends he is calm to avoid the nagging voices that would surely follow.

Telling you to get help is always futile, and you've long accepted that you are, in fact, the definition of a "lost cause." There is nothing that can be done to help you, as you drown in the void you've created. There is "you" and then there is yourself. And only one of them pretends living is worth it.  
"Suicidal" is a word one could possibly apply to you. You are a man of many interests, and by now, you find every one of them just as boring and dry as you'd find a cardboard sandwich- and you find as much point in doing any of them as you'd find in eating said sandwich. 

John rolls over, taking the blanket with him, and you sigh softly. He is too good for you. And as if you didn't already know, as if you didn't tell yourself so many times every single fucking day that he is someone you've got to protect, that he is far too perfect for your tainted, destructive hands to touch.

And for some reason, some absolutely incomprehensible reason, he loves you. You are awkward, a lanky set of limbs attached to a too-thin torso that betrays your upbringing, white hair and unnatural eyes that would glow against your milk white skin if you ever took off the shades that shield them. You are a mind that contradicts itself at any possible opportunity, rising up to remind you of exactly who you are.  
You are a mess. You are a failure. You have this absolutely incredible power of managing to break everything you touch in some way or another, and you just know how your relationship is going to end.  
Just like the last, with suffocation, with the human need for space overwhelming the chemical synthesis known as "love." You collapse back against the sheets.

Saying you "hate yourself" is too melodramatic, and yet very accurate. If you were forced to describe in conversation how you felt about yourself, you'd liken it to how the ancient Greeks would have felt if NASA landed a rocket on their temple and told them about science.  
They'd hate them firstly, for crushing their temple and their faith, but also fear and respect them for the power they seem to hold.

You hate yourself firstly, for fucking up everything in your life, everything good especially, but you also fear yourself for the damage you can cause and the havoc you can wreak. And if one you wasn't enough for this masochistic world, your splinters are running loose, painting this world with far more "Dirk Strider" than anyone could have ever expected or dreaded.   
You close listless eyes and hurl your shades to the floor, listening to them bounce off something fabric.

Normally you'd be far too tired to consider this, but you are at the end of your tolerance. You are so beyond done with this very existence that the energy it takes to draw another breath feels like your chest is going to collapse inwards and you wish it would, to save you the trouble of what you're about to do.  
You lean down, kissing John's cheek gently. He stirs, and you curse softly- he's usually a much heavier sleeper. Angelic azure eyes open and gaze at you blearily, a soft, hoarse voice asking quietly,

"Dirk? You're awake?...did you have another nightmare?" You caress his cheek softly, and shake your head.  
"No nightmares, John. Just go back to sleep, sugar." He yawns, and complies, wrapping himself in the blankets. You kiss him briefly, and whisper,  
"I love you John. Sorry about this." He murmurs something about it being okay, he was having a bad dream anyway, and then he's out again. You tease your fingers through his soft hair, and reluctantly let go, standing up. 

You feel guilt for what you'll put him through, but dryly find it funny, that even removing yourself from his life will cause him distress. God, you're like a barbed splinter- pushing it further in won't help, and pulling it out hurts like a bitch. There's no winning! You head to your studio, and pull up the chair, scrawling out a letter, one painful word at a time. It feels like it takes forever to finish and you immediately want to destroy it but you need to leave John something to reassure him that it wasn't his fault. You don't want to torment him from beyond the grave.

You place it on the chair that you turn to face the door, and open the drawer of your desk. There's only one thing in it- a pistol, with a single bullet in it. You've turned it over and over in your hands night after night, trying to find reasons to stay. But you've finally run dry, knowing that you aren't going to do anyone any favors by remaining in this world.  
You lightly trace your fingers over the metal, and raise it up. You know he'll hear it, you know he'll wake up and see the mess you'll leave, you know he won't be able to come near this room for a long time. You know he'll cry looking at your photos. He'll cry, and find solace in Dave, the best friend that's always been better for him than you. Even in a world where he wasn't the same person, your bro is better than you could ever hope to be.  
You close your eyes, steady the gun, and aim, pulling the trigger.

_**BANG.** _

It's   
So much  
Louder  
Than you thought

Your body hits the floor, and you're aware for a few seconds before a sharp pinch seems to shut off your perception.  
All that's left is flickering images that race through your mind, the last seven minutes of activity in your brain before the final shutdown.   
And then Dirk Strider is no more.

You are JOHN EGBERT, and you just heard a gunshot that jerked you out of uneasy sleep filled with nightmares. You swing your legs out of bed after a second or two, realizing Dirk is nowhere to be seen. His shades are on the ground nearby, you note distantly, and your throat suddenly feels oddly thick, choked up, like you're suffocating or having an allergic reaction, but you're not.  
Something wants you to go back to sleep. Something wants you to not go looking. Some part of you has this horrible sense of dread- like you already know what you'll find.  
But you stand up, and stumble out and down the stairs, pausing in the hall. The studio has a light on inside it.

No.  
Oh no, please.  
You can already smell the coppery scent, can already see the blood. You don't know how or why, but you know what you'll find when you open that door.  
Do it for him, you tell yourself. You stand outside the door, dithering for minutes, indecisive.  
Your breeze pushes open the door, and you begin to choke up as the scene is revealed.

You'd feared this. You had imagined many things involving your boyfriend, but never had the thought of him sprawled on the studio floor with a bullet in his skull crossed your mind, unless as a nightmare.  
Your body is numb, and distantly you feel your knees give out, feel yourself retching. When you finish heaving your insides onto the floor, tears streaming down your face, you fumble, reaching for the letter he had left.

"John," it reads, "as I know you will be the one to find me, or what's left of me, I want to firstly apologize for the trauma it will cause you. I want to apologize for abruptly leaving your life in such a way, and I would make a joke about it keeping fit with my dramatic ways, but you are not in a joking state of mind.  
I know that, like most people do, you will blame yourself in some small way, for what has become of me. I want to tell you that you are in no way to blame for the state I had fallen into, and that you couldn't have saved me had you tried. I was a lost cause, and as painful as it will be to you, I wasn't meant to be saved, to be dragged onwards into further existing.   
I want to say so many things, but there will never be enough words for me to say what I want to, nor enough paper. I want to say I love you. You brought me small pieces of happiness in the darkness that I had fallen into. You brought me love, and I can never repay you for all you've done for me- especially not now, when I'm merely an empty body. But I want you to go on, and to be happy. I don't want you to spend years grieving me- move on. After all, it's not as if I was particularly irreplaceable. Again, I love you. Please, smile for me."

The next section is addressed to Dave, but you don't read it, because you are sobbing, you are a mess, you are covered in sweat and the floor is bloody and coated in bile, your face is running with tears. You are screaming, you think, or wailing, your voice echoing off the empty walls.  
You are alone. There is nobody to hear you, there is nobody coming to comfort you. Just you, and the dead body. You cannot think of it as Dirk or you will never stop crying.

It's just a body.  
It's just a body.   
How come his god tier revival isn't working?  
You stare at it, hoping to see the familiar glow of reviving. Jane has used her revival on him already.   
How did he manage to obtain a heroic or a just death?  
Why? Why isn't he coming back?

You curl into a tiny ball on the floor in the corner, staring at the far wall with wide, haunted eyes.

You don't sleep.

It takes a day for one of your friends to notice you not responding to messages. A day of you huddling in the corner, not drinking or eating and barely sleeping.  
He's dead.  
He's really dead. You checked the gun and there was only one bullet. How cruel of him, to not leave you some way to follow.  
The one who finds you is Dave. He takes in the scene with a sharply inhaled "Shit!" and swallows heavily before he takes you into his arms, helping you stand.

"John." You don't say anything. "Answer me John, are you okay?" You thrust the letter into his hands and begin to cry on his shoulder, clinging to him.  
He is a reminder, but he also is your best friend and you need him so badly right now. You need something to tie you down.  
He doesn't read the letter, not yet. Instead, he lifts you up, and takes you to the bathroom,   
"Take a shower. I'll get you some clothes, and then we'll...handle what's left. I'll, handle it. You're going to come with me and, and get therapy or something because I've gotta make sure you're okay man, you look haunted." You listen to him, because what else are you going to do?

But he brought you Dirk's hoodie, oh god, he brought you his hoodie. You don't say anything at first, but as soon as you pull it over your head he realizes what he's done and starts to apologize, but you shut him up, holding up a hand as you snuggle into the familiar fabric, breathing in the scent, and begin to break down again. You can't do this.  
He searches for something he can do, and after he forces you to eat something, he finally ends up offering you sleeping pills. You gladly accept them, and soon it all fades out.  
You wonder if that's how it felt for Dirk.


End file.
